of weeds beautiful

there comes a weed out from the ground,
forgotten in the thicket,
never known;
alone.

poets
wonder when
the silent pass unheeded,
disregarded as irrelevent; seen but unheard.

when in silence poets look into the margins,
where others fear to trod,
textured hues;
humans,

poets
recognize the
irony of assumptions gone awry.
the weeds are flowers of beauty needing love.

11 October 2008 by Glen Alan Woods